The Signal

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Rupert Sterling walked through the heavy London snow. His face was set with purpose, and his breath formed billowing clouds that dissipated in the darkness. He glanced up at a street lamp and noticed the flakes swirling around it like white moths.

The Victoria Embankment, which runs along the north side of the Thames, was crowded that night. The snow was the first of the season, and there was excitement in the air. Loud tourists made their way toward Westminster and the historic sites. Locals, usually on their way home after work, swarmed to the local pubs to celebrate winter’s gift.

But Rupert’s thoughts were not on the snow that evening. He kept thinking about a text he had received, two days ago, from a friend who had been out of touch for almost three years. It had simply read: Our old spot when you get off on Friday night. Ian.

No further explanation was necessary. Ian and Rupert had worked together in the early nineties. Ian was an intense workaholic American, and Rupert an extroverted free spirit who brought out the fun side of his Yank friend. The two had hit it off immediately and had spent many evenings together in their favorite pub.

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